


Viscous Circle

by helens78



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, F/M, Masturbation, Other, Temperature Play, Wax, candle play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-20
Updated: 2010-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser liked ice before Victoria, but nowadays it's candles he remembers. He wishes the memories were a little better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viscous Circle

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note: the title is a pun, not a typo. &lt;_&lt; &gt;_&gt;

_All these candles_, she said, _it's like you're trying to tell me something._

He said, _It's for safety, in case of power outages--this building is rather old, you see, and they've been known to--_

She pulled one off the windowsill and headed back to bed with it, hand cupped around the flame to keep it from going out.

This is what he remembers, here in the dark: her hand, protective and gentle and knowing, experienced and certain. He strikes a match and lights the candle, and his own hand guards the flame from going out as he moves it over himself.

She started with his chest, and he'd like to--he'd do it that way if he could, if the angle weren't so awkward. But in the end she went further and further and lower and lower, and this is where he starts tonight--sitting up, legs extended in front of him, candle held over his thighs, right one first. The wax comes down on his quadricep, one slow drip at a time, cooling in a smooth, steady pattern over his rectus femoris.

He switches to his left leg and leaves a matching trail, but the wax is coming faster now, and the drops are a little larger. He can't blame it on the candle; it's the fault of the man holding it, too excited to be patient. He hisses at one of the largest drops, tilting the candle back up again.

It used to be ice for him, if anything. It was warm so often here, the heat thick and dense because of the humidity, and opening the windows made so little difference it almost wasn't worth bothering. Ice was a welcome relief, and the cool touch of his hand--sometimes dry, sometimes a little damp if he couldn't wait--made him think about other hands, other times. Missed opportunities.

He likes ice, still, but now if he's going to take his time with it, he sacrifices half a candle and makes tiny paraffin dots up and down his legs. Tonight he slides his legs apart and tilts his left knee to the side, and when he makes a line from knee to upper thigh, he does it on the inside, up and over his adductor magnus. Every little drop burns in, warms him, and soon enough he's leaning over to drip a few bits of wax onto the nightstand, pushing the base of the candle into the melting wax and keeping it there until the wax hardens enough to hold the candle steady.

Good enough; he drops back onto the bed, already reaching for his cock. He grips himself, strokes himself; he doesn't need to draw it out. Her hands always moved with self-assurance that, once upon a time, he thought came from their connection--no matter how many years it'd been, their time at Fortitude Pass left them more open to each other than they'd ever been to anyone else. He'd really believed that once.

Now he's willing to take his own right hand and its twenty-odd years of practice, his own fingernails as they scrape the still-heated wax off his skin. It hurts as it comes loose, but it's supposed to. He wants it to hurt.

Quick and efficient with a little bit of pain--yes, that's it; his orgasm moves through him with its usual unassuming pulses, and he exhales softly through his teeth and lies down fully, his skin stretching beneath the wax as he shifts. He closes his eyes; the wax is still warm on his thighs, even if his come is already cooling on his hand.

It isn't neat like ice, but he supposes it isn't meant to be; none of this was ever simple. His skin stays stiff and sticky after he's wiped the come away with a tissue; the wax mostly comes clean, but it leaves sensitive spots behind on his skin.

_You don't mind?_ she asked. _It looks beautiful on you._

_I don't mind_, he said, but he wonders if it ever was, if it ever will be.

_-end-_


End file.
